Human After All
by Riraberr
Summary: In which murder is human, and impromptu kitchen sex with your friend's sister to heal a broken moral compass is even more so.


My to-do list states, quite plainly and with multiple underlines, that today I was supposed to write an essay about the rhetorical devices used in and an overall analyzation of John Edwards' "Two Americas" speech as presented at the 2004 Democratic National Convention.

Yeah.

Good thing _that_ happened.

This is the first (and, given my track record) possibly last in a series of 'lol let's overanalyze Yamamoto Takeshi and make him a dark, hidden man of secrets and consistent sexual adventures'. I like him as an idiot. I like him when he's portrayed as actually intelligent and completely understanding of all the events around him. I like him as a complicated guy. So I made him a complicated guy. I'm playing the 'two sides of the same coin' game where one person is completely allowed to have two very different facets of his personality.

Also, yeah, Yamamoto and Bianchi. I enjoy mixing him with the siblings, and I mayhavemadethisup, but I'm pretty sure I keep noticing strange sexual tension, especially at the beginning of the manga. She gets just as mad at him (for no reason) as Gokudera does, so meeehhhhhh.

After editing this, I decided I want French Vanilla coffee. And sex with Yamamoto.

Rated M for the most obvious reason a piece of fanfiction would be rated M for.

I own my fantasies. Not these characters. Cheers.

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><p>Knives flashing faster then was safe, the soft smell of cooking rice mingled with fresh cuts of fish, boxes upon boxes of bento stacked haphazardly wherever there was a surface to bear them; Bianchi knew she walked into a battlefield.<p>

Not a battlefield. A war.

Yamamoto's hands didn't shake as he expertly sliced perfect portions of his unagi. His movements rivaled a true chef in their power and efficiency. This was pure business-no smiling, no dancing in place like the young man was prone to whenever she saw him work in the kitchen.

No, on this cold dawn, Yamamoto poured no love into his food. Normally it would have irked her, but there was something terribly wrong today. It wasn't the lack of his shining grin, nor his puppy-like demeanor, though that was clearly strange. It was the cold, cruel precision he only dared show when he was being tested beyond his limits.

Yes, she nodded to herself, leaning casually against the island counter of Tsuna's kitchen, she stepped into Yamamoto's personal war.

"You're up early."

The yawn that had begun to form was caught in her lungs, and she let the air out in a low whistle. Yamamoto's voice was quiet, non-confrontational. If she could see his eyes, maybe she'd understand the turmoil that rocked her brother's friend. What she could see, however, was the blindingly apparent lack of shirt-further, the strong, lithe muscles normally hidden under modest, practical clothing.

Ah.

"Those who wake up past dawn miss the beginning and skip straight to the middle." Bianchi muttered, her current position allotting only a small glimpse of his profile. "I'd like to think that's cheating."

He laughed, humorless, and neatly arranged his recently prepared unagi nigiri into a now-complete box, which he placed on top of the microwave. Allowing himself no break, he turned slightly towards the rice, dipping his hands in a small bowl of cool water before adding mirin and a pinch of sesame seeds to the mix. In turning to his next project, Bianchi finally saw more of his face, and found the lack of expression she had expected. She found nothing.

Not 'nothing' in the _usual_ Yamamoto-style, where he genuinely had no idea what was going on; nor was it 'nothing' implying he was in extreme control of his emotions, and the blankness masked what was really happening. Today, on this bitter morning, he had nothing.

He didn't even have a shirt. Necessary to note twice because it was such a lovely morning greeting.

Bianchi made a quick count of his work. There were fifteen finished bento boxes, and he was quickly working on the sixteenth. His continued silence prompted the characteristically stoic woman into action. "Aren't you afraid I'm going to poison it?"

"No." Yamamoto muttered, in the same dead tone. "Not really. I'll just make more."

It was fitting that Yamamoto was as good with knives as he was with swords. Soon he made waste of another set, this time of unagi, carrot, and cucumber sushi rolls. Box number sixteen, finished.

Yes, something was wrong.

There was a war here, and it was more than shirts versus skins.

"Was this your first kill?" She asked leisurely, beginning to make coffee-no poison this time. Reborn had told her last night about Yamamoto's mission, and his subsequent textbook assassination. Not to mention that Yamamoto elected to spend the night at Tsuna's house in lieu of returning to his home and to the man who raised him to be a good, respectful man.

He faltered, she could tell by the lack of sliding knives and chopping against the cutting board. Soon, though, the sounds returned, albeit slower. The coffee maker began to groan and gurgle, emitting a welcome smell of French Vanilla.

Bianchi knew. Which was why she chose this particular morning to rise with the dawn. She knew Yamamoto hadn't slept, nor had he changed his clothes besides the (bloodstained) shirt. Tsuna had fallen asleep, a victim to his rain guardian's tranquil presence, no doubt. The Poison Scorpion had been with Gokudera after his first kill, and it seemed almost fitting for her to be here now. Big Sister through and through.

Except... Yamamoto's charm, talent, and damn-near unbelievable body had always thrown a spoke into the Big Sister game. Always.

But this wasn't about her. It was about this young man, and his war of morals. The ease of the murder against the goodness of a gentle heart. "It..."

Just as he continued on with his work, Bianchi continued hers, gathering two mismatched coffee mugs from a cupboard.

"It was easy. It was..._ fun_." He was talking to himself more than her, it seemed. Still, he wouldn't have said a word had someone not been there to prompt it. "How can murder... How can a stupid kid be so _good_ at murder?"

Bianchi took a deep breath, considering the paths she could now take. There was the obvious, _"The man was evil. You helped more than you destroyed last night. It'll be fine, and if you wish, you'll never have to kill again,"_ ironically the very speech she had given Gokudera after his first kill breakdown.

But no. Yamamoto was a different breed. She had never seen him as a brother, just as he had never thought of her as a sister. She was not dealing with a brother-she was dealing with a man.

He entered a world of betrayal and death only three years ago, while she and Gokudera had been there all their lives. Yamamoto fell off the roof of Namimori Middle into this life and accepted the challenges and the roles that came with it. Hell, he accepted it with a _smile_. Even still, no one emerges from their first kill unscathed, natural-born assassin or not.

"Humans are good at murder." Bianchi said, choosing the road less travelled. "Humans are even better at betrayal-whether it be of others, or ourselves. We're conditioned into the imperative that nothing can compete with the mission of defeating the evil set against us."

Normally Yamamoto would have just chuckled and admitted he lacked even a semblance of an idea what she was talking about, but today wasn't normal. On this morning, Yamamoto was in a terrifying state of existence. He knew. He understood. Hell, he had probably _always_ understood.

Just as he understood how unbelievably attracted he always had been to the femme fatale. Just as he understood how her mere presence in the room changed _everything._

She continued. "Because we decide our own subjective good, we're hard-pressed to recognize that the methods we've chosen to fulfill our goal may be immoral, or _be_ the very evil we strive to destroy."

The coffee made, she expertly poured two even portions and paused in her explanation to take a sip of hers. "We cast a blind eye to the obvious fact that to our villains... _we're_ the villains."

"We're the heroes, and they're the villains..." Yamamoto muttered, putting what she said into more understandable terms. "But to them, _they're_ the heroes, and _we're_ the villains."

"Yes."

"T-Then what's there to do?" It was the first time his voice faltered, dipping into an impressively low, deep tone. The knives stopped their flurry. "Why doesn't everybody kill everyone else all the time?"

Bianchi, leaning casually on the kitchen island, watched his back muscles move as he took deep, shuddering breaths. "Because of the very feeling in your gut right now."

"That doesn't make any sense." Yamamoto shook his head, coming very close to laughing at the absurdity.

Pushing off from the counter, Bianchi stood, hovering behind him. She could tell how cold he was, but doubted he even felt it. "That's because it _doesn't_ make sense. None of it does. Humans don't _make_ sense, we just struggle and fool ourselves into thinking we have control. You must come to terms with that."

Her own coffee abandoned on the island, she moved silently, taking advantage of Yamamoto's height to slip his cup of coffee under his arms and on to the chopping block. Practically embracing him, she grabbed one of his wrists and brought it to the coffee, while the other slowly pried the knife out of numb hands.

"It doesn't need to make sense, either, I don't think." She went on, gripping his wrists steadily, bringing her body slowly against his bare back. He shivered.

"Are we still talking about murder?" He asked, deliberately grabbing her hands and bringing them together at his mid-torso, covering her slender fingers with his larger, freezing ones. She welcomed the contact. The two had been building a deadly attraction ever since they met, a tangible mass that only got stronger as their world got darker.

"That and other things..." Bianchi admitted simply, hardly surprised at this new development. This was something that was always going to happen between then. And if it helped him get over his moral war...

She remembered, vividly, the first person she had killed. It had been a medium-ranking member of a traitorous family that had been smuggling drugs past Vongola control points. She killed him, simply and efficiently, and returned to Italy only to fall to the floor in a mess of emotions as soon as she entered the door of Vongola headquarters. She had been 16.

Dino was there. Dino was a year her senior, and they had occasionally seen, but never trained together. It was that blond clutz who took her into a guest room and sat with her in silence while she bemoaned her own moral crisis. _"Humans are humans,"_ he had said. His contact and their mutual attraction led to sleeping together-a bizarrely similar situation to what was happening here, in Nana's kitchen.

"I don't know what I'm doing." Yamamoto muttered, leaning backward into her warm embrace. "Where I'm going. None of it. I'm just floating between situations. There's no control."

Bianchi tugged her hands away from his, preferring instead to slide slowly, tantalizingly down his taut stomach. "Who needs control?"

"E-Everyone needs control-"

"You can't know control until..." She breathed, thin fingers trailing lower and lower, toying with his belt buckle. "You lose it first."

She thought he would lose it then and there, but Yamamoto always surprised her. "So," He declared, strength back behind his voice, "if I were to lose control, and, say, take my friend's sister on the kitchen island... that's being a human?"

Bianchi hummed to herself, nimbly unbuckling the belt. "About as human as murder."

She-and everybody else in Vongola for that matter-always, _always_ underestimated how fast Yamamoto really was. How dangerous he was. Yes, they all understood that he _could_ snap into a murderous rampage, and that he _could_ become a great assassin. But no one realized that he _was_ the perfect hit-man.

Bianchi was on her back on the kitchen counter a full moment before she realized he moved. His speed was incredible-his strength, always underestimated. Her legs wrapped around his waist as, coming back to earth, she continued her work on his button and zipper. Yamamoto, his eyes adopting the terrifying sharp glint, pulled her into a seated position on the island, spilling the now-cold coffee in the process.

Her hand found it's way past his briefs before he even kissed her, a problem soon to be remedied as he brought his lips to hers in a suffocating, desperate kiss.

This was humanity. It was raw, animalistic, and confused.

His eager mouth soon found her neck, where he began to nip and suck quickly, all the while running strong hands up her stomach to tease her breasts. She uncharacteristically cried out as he pinched her nipples, and in response began to pump his hardening cock. He growled, low, guttural, and moved her hands from their job in favor of removing her shirt and trailing hungry kisses to the neglected breasts.

"Y-You..." Bianchi breathed, surprised by his apparent experience. In one fluid movement he pulled off her shorts and panties, and she gasped girlishly as he slipped his hand between her legs to play with her clit.

"Me." He muttered, taking his mouth off her only to reclaim her mouth in a harsh, dominating kiss. This was the Yamamoto she had never seen before, but always,_ always_ hoped was there. The animal. The human.

Eager for more of this new man, she twisted a hand into his hair, the other traveling around his lower back and pulling their bodies together.

"I'll never look at this table the same way again." Yamamoto muttered, sticking three fingers into her heat, grinning slyly as he realized how much she wanted this. "Bianchi-neesan... where do you want me to put my lips?"

She shuddered at the predatory tone, and a chill ran up her spine despite how hot their bodies were. "Wherever you've ever," She gasped as he pushed her down to the table again, "wherever you've ever wanted, k-kid."

Kid?

One hand still fucking her slow and deep, he sucked his way down her navel before draping her knees over his shoulders and sucking at the inside of her legs, his tongue drifting closer and closer to her core.

"Y-Yamamoto... how often do you... this?" She breathed, fingers wrapped almost painfully tight in his perpetually messy hair.

He laughed, breathing hot air between her legs enough to make her squirm beneath him. "More often than you suspected, apparently."

This was not a broken Yamamoto Takeshi. This was just him. He was not only a dopey ray of sunshine, laughing and smoothing away the creases of tension and discord. The happy dog was one side of him, the beautiful and deadly swallow the other. No wonder he had two box animals. Two sides to one very talented coin.

Finally done teasing her, Yamamoto dipped his tongue into her warm heat, lapping lightly before digging deeper. She began to cry out, but had enough sense to clap a hand to her mouth to muffle what would have been a rather strange wake-up call for those sleeping in the house. She drove her hips toward him, begging him deeper.

He knew she was close, and it was just as well, for he was losing his own mind pleasuring her first and leaving his own screaming member untouched. Such was how he worked. Give first, then take as much as you want.

Using her muffled moans as assent, he found her clitoris with his tongue again and rubbed it gently against his teeth, continuing this until she climaxed, an electric current of brutal pleasure running through her body as she bit her finger to stop from screaming. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, though she hardly noticed, letting her spent body be overcome with the glowing aftershock.

Without missing a beat, he kissed his way up her body again, one hand barely stroking the extra-sensitive folds. He paused between kisses, though she barely heard him mutter, "That," kiss, "sounded _big_." Three more kisses, "Don't get that often," a nip, "or is it _me_?"

This was scary, but so unbelievable sensual and attractive she could barely move. Yamamoto was... terrifying. This was the stupid boy who laughed at rampaging turtles. This was the strong soul who's life would only get darker and darker the more he killed, the more they fucked.

This would happen again. They both knew it.

"Condom?" He muttered, realizing this was a necessary step to take.

"Pill."

There were no more words, just his strong grip pulling her hips into a more accessible position before he drove into her fast and deep, both partners groaning at the new feeling. Soon he was thrusting in an out in a steadily accelerating rhythm. Her legs wrapped around, eager for him to drive harder and moving with his thrusts.

Unable to take much more of the insane strength and pace, Bianchi leaned back, leaning her weight back on her arms and letting him completely take hold. They were both completely lost in the heat of the other, building closer and closer to a peak that would drive them both over.

Right when the hot pressure was almost too much to bear, Bianchi gasped as Yamamoto stopped abruptly. "What's wrong?"

He was panting heavily, his face alight in the megawatt grin that she hadn't seen from him the entire morning. "G-Gokudera's gonna kill me."

"Yeah," She growled, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. "And if you don't finish what you started, _I'm_ gonna kill you."

"Pick your poison..." He muttered, the smile still there, though it was paired oddly with the reclaimed predatory glint in his eyes. In another display of underestimated speed and power, he pulled out of her, snatched her off the island and flipped her over before strongly entering her from behind and thrusting into her with more force and direction than before.

He slammed into her a few more times before she came again, knuckles white as she clutched the counter's edge. This time where was no muffling her mouth-there was no need. Spent, body ravaged twice, her voice caught and died in a whimper, ashy pink hair clinging to her sweaty body. Yamamoto drove into her deeper and deeper, losing the precision and rhythm steadily before, with a low growl, he came, hands bruising her hips.

Human after all.

Yamamoto's weight pinned Bianchi to the edge of the kitchen island, but it was more comforting than anything else. They let their senses return and realized there were morning birds chirping away, and the ray of sunlight that had been on the wall when they started now reached their spent bodies.

"Thanks, Bianchi." Yamamoto said finally, picking his weight back up and sliding out of her.

She turned, forest green eyes meeting kind amber. "Feel better?"

"Haha, obviously." He laughed, locating his briefs and discarded pants.

That just happened.

"It's..." Bianchi muttered, making no motion to hide her glorious nudity. "It's not going to get easy quickly. Murder."

He turned, expression indiscernible. "I suppose it won't. But that's good, right?"

She pushed off the counter, finally retrieving her shorts and shirt. She dipped low to scoop up the mug of spilled coffee, wiping it up with the shirt neatly. "So know..." When she stood to her full height again, she smirked at him. "Know that next time you have to kill, I'll pick up the pieces as long as you need."

Yamamoto always liked the way she spoke: low, slowly, as if nothing in the world was worth rushing for. It sounded even better as a situational invitation into her bed.

"I get a reward for killing?" He asked, slipping on his briefs quickly.

"No," she muttered, turning her back to him as she began to walk proudly out of the kitchen, "You get a reward for surviving."

Human after all.

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><p>Hahahhaha whut?<p>

Oops.

That was my... first... smut.

I need to know I didn't just kill my reputation here on ff with a bum lemon.

I love you all.


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